an order of empathy please, and hold the advice

I've been neglecting all of you recently. Hoping there is still someone out there that enjoys a running pastor's stream of consciousness ramblings.

Tuesday, I brought our multi-media laptop into my office. It is only 6 months old, and the CD/DVD drive had entirely died several weeks before. I finally had a window of time where I could take it back, and plead for speedy repair or replacement. ("Plead" because it was the only piece of equipment for which I could not find the receipt - ugh)

To ensure that I would not look like a complete idiot, I turned it on before taking it in, just to make sure that it still was not working. Popped in a CD - and was a little taken aback to hear it start playing. Took out the CD - slid in a DVD - it whirred happily, and started the movie. Turns out it works fine now. For how long, no one knows, but I'm not pleading anyone to repair a laptop that is working, especially when I don't have the receipt.

So I put it back. Plugged it in. Went back to my office.

Thursday, around 6 PM, I got a call from the youth group - "Where's the laptop?"

Silly, lovable youth. "It's right there, in front of you, where it always is."

"No, it isn't."

"Are you sure?"

I swear I could hear their eyes rolling over the phone - "Um, yes."

Sigh. So much for a quiet evening at home. A few minutes later, I arrived, apologetically checking the same place they had already checked. Turns out they're right - it's not there - and it's not anywhere. It has walked.

Crap.

Called the police.

Questioned leaders.

Eventually came to the conclusion that it walked away under the watchful, protective gaze of ... me. During office hours.

Because, as you may remember from a Seinfeld episode that I cannot find on YouTube, all the security systems and state-of-the-art locks in the world, have only one flaw - YOU MUST LOCK THE DOOR!!!

I had a flashback to that same episode, as I filed a police report over the phone. The very kind, very friendly officer said to me, "Here's my email address - let me know if you have any more details - we'll let you know if something turns up."

I really, really wanted to say - "Does anything ever turn up?" Just to hear the instant, matter-of-fact - "Nah."

So - we've replaced it - I'm reloading it - and if all goes well, Sunday will go off without a hitch.

And I'm taking a tiny bit of comfort in the thought that the next time the wonky CD/DVD drive in that first laptop stops working - it's not my problem!

cable labels

Thursday was a very satisfying day.

Tuesday was a high-speed work day, from the moment I stepped into my office to find two immediate-action phone messages, through the moment the funeral lunch group arrived (an hour and a half earlier than we expected), through to the end of the day, with a meeting that had been pushed from before the funeral lunch to after.

Wednesday was a loooong work day, beginning at 7:30 AM, holding my "cold enough for ya?" sign on the corner, giving out hot chocolate to anyone who wanted it; ending at 10:30 PM after an intense sound training session with our worship team.

But Thursday - that was a very satisfying day. Since we moved into the new building last fall, all things multi-media have been set up and working, but I had a sneaking suspicion that if anything went wrong, I had no instincts in how to fix it. I didn't have a grasp of the whole big picture, and being the person that I am (I call it doing my job well - others mutter "control issues" behind my back), I NEED TO KNOW what's happening!

So after the training session Wednesday night, I went to work on Thursday morning, and it lasted all the day long.

Cleaned out the big closet that holds all things multi-media. My friend George shoved it all in there on moving day, for which I was truly grateful, but it was time to clean it out and have it make sense. I installed hooks - without benefit of a drill, mind you - for patch cables, speaker cables and XLR cables. I got rid of broken things. Moved rarely used things to the high cupboards, and put signs on the cupboard doors to identify the contents within.

Crawled over every inch of the platform, identifying the reason why cable "3" was plugged into jack "F" and other such conundrums. Why, when everything is numbered, do we have one box that is all letters? Moved shiny stands into the drum booth - where everything is shiny - and black stands onto the platform - where everything is black.

And then I came back after supper on Thursday night to meet my B-I-L and his trusty label-maker. We are two of a kind, he and I, and we spent two glee-filled hours, testing, labelling and tidying countless cables. We put labels everywhere, forcing letters to convert to numbers that match the numbers to which they are connected.

And then we went crazy, putting tiny directive labels on door knobs and ductwork and artwork throughout the building. No we didn't. We did consider it, though.

Now I only need to create a couple of laminated sound and platform diagrams that trainees can hold close to their hearts, and it will all be settled. No one else will know the difference.

But Thursday was a very satisfying day.

all tuckered out

I took a mental picture for all of you on Saturday night. I would have taken a real picture, and promptly posted it right here, but I didn't have my camera with me. Also, a little voice in my head said that taking a picture of a complete stranger and posting it on my blog might perhaps be a teensy-weensy invasion of their privacy.

But I can tell you about it, right?

We were at Tucker's Market on Saturday night, celebrating my S & B-I-L's wedding anniversary. If you've been to Tucker's, you know it's not a quiet, formal kind of place. It's jam-packed with people having birthdays (you eat free there on your b-day) and the poor staff have to sing a very short, very fast, very exciting version of "Happy Birthday" several times an hour. (I saw one staff member burst into tears and run screaming into the kitchen when she found out there was yet another birthday that night.)

It's not only jam-packed, but it's a buffet, so if you want to eat, you must climb out of your chair (the place is too jam-packed to allow for chairs to be slid out from the table), head to another room, and visit several randomly placed counters to get your food. Once you've loaded up your plate, you have to navigate past everyone else, without letting your food touch their sleeves.

It's a place that works, I believe, because it is in Canada, and Canadians are experts at saying, "Excuse me," and "Sorry" to everyone in the crowd, for no apparent reason.

It takes awhile to get back to your table, because by the time you have visited all the counters, and apologized to 48 people for your very existence, you realize you no longer have any idea which room your table is in, so there is a short time of wandering aimlessly. Then you either make new friends and join another table, just because you're so hungry, or in a stroke of fantastic luck, you find the people you came with, climb back into your chair, and start eating.

All this to say - Tucker's has a lot of noise and activity going on.

Except for one man. Had he worked several shifts in a row, before coming to this mayhem of madness? Was he part of a sleep experiment gone horribly wrong? Could he not find the coffee pot?

We don't know.

But the poor guy was there with his family, stumbling back and forth to the buffet in an exhausted stupor. He was trying, he really was. And it appeared that they knew this was the best he could do. But he had hit "tired" several hours before this, and he had moved on to an all-out weary desperation, I think.

He came. He went to the buffet. Twice. He found his table again. He ate. And then, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist, he turned his face casually away from his family as if scanning the restaurant - and fell dead asleep.

I guess he was just all tuckered out.

gourd-related injuries

I learned something on Saturday. I should have learned it last fall, but nothing gets past me ... the second time, anyway.

I was in a serious soup mood. It's winter, and every warm-me-up coping mechanism has kicked into high gear. Baby, it's cold outside!

I souped for several hours. There is the choosing of recipes, the making of grocery lists, the shopping for said groceries, the cleaning of kitchen counters, and THEN you can start the actual souping process. (After doing a little Veggie Tales skit on the counter with the butternut squash.)

I made Cream of Potato and Onion soup. (Looks bland - tastes good, especially if you shred a little cheddar into it, or sprinkle minced parsley on top)

And I made Creamy Carrot and Basil soup. I know - weird, right? Soooooo easy. And sooooo good.

I made ... um ... oh, that's right, Cream of Broccoli soup. Also good with cheddar.

Well, actually, in this house, cheddar is a given, like or salt or pepper. Spike really likes his cheddar, and believes all food groups can be improved by either cheddar cheese or BBQ sauce.

And I ventured out into crazy land and made ... drumroll please ... Butternut Squash and Curry soup.

And I don't even like squash! But this - THIS is good. Even without BBQ sauce.

But here's what I learned. My hands have an aversion to gourds. Does anyone else have this?

Last fall, when I pureed pumpkin and roasted pumpkin seeds; and again on Saturday, cutting up the squash. After it's all said and done, I absentmindedly rub my hands, and realize something is off. Take a glance down and realize that them there gourds have sucked every iota of moisture out of my skin. I mean all of it. I have moments of wondering if my entire hands are going to turn to dust and blow gently away. And it takes a day or two, with lots of lotion, to get my hands back to normal.

And I just wondered if this happens to anyone else.

Meanwhile, I assure you that my gourd issues did not affect the quality of the soup.

Next snowstorm - mmmmm.

it's a good life

Today feels like the most pleasant of days.

The rush of the holidays is over.

I don't have to work today, except one small errand.

New snow on the ground.

Spike will be up soon.

What will I do today? Play some of my new piano music? Read any number of books? Put digital photos of Alaska in my new picture frame? Organize something?

I'm thinking of making soup for the freezer.

I even got to start the day by reading the entire Saturday paper.

Can't beat that!

(although I did have to banish the economic worries from my head after reading the paper)

in my hometown

There’s a Walmart in my hometown.

Yesterday was a good day, even though it was for Anita's funeral. Reconnected with some people. Drove by the various places we lived and went to school.

There were some changes, of course. My elementary school is not boarded up - it has been entirely replaced by houses. The Kmart is a Giant Tiger, and the Miracle Mart is a Food Basics. Wimpy’s Burgers is a Swiss Chalet. And some streets that didn’t even exist when I lived there, are now showing signs of age.

But the fairgrounds look the same, as does the slide in the park on the corner, and the high school. “Downtown” (and I use that term loosely) has the same feel of friendly history, with a few new specialty shops thrown in for good measure. The “old mall” looks the same, but the “new mall” looks older.

All these things, whether the same or different, seem normal. Part of the rhythm of life of a small town.

But it was a bit of a shock to my system, on the way in, to see a big, shiny Walmart in what used to be a field. I didn’t think it was a Walmart kind of town. I used to know who owned the hardware store, the drugstore, the sports store (which I never went into) and even the Canadian Tire. But who owns the Walmart? Some big, corporate entity, that’s who. Doesn’t seem right.

But things change, and when I mentioned these things to an old friend, he laughed and said, “Let it go, Patti. Move on.”

So I am. But as I munched on a locally-grown apple on the way home, I thought it should be noted.

There’s a Walmart in my hometown.

going home

I'm headed back to my hometown today - Simcoe. No offense intended to the 4,500 people of Petrolia, where I was born, but we moved to Simcoe when I was 8, and lived there until I was 17, so Simcoe is the place that feels like home to me.

It's a wonderful place.

Random memories - doing my math homework in the new library (not new anymore) - working my first real job at the new KMart (not there anymore) - going to Grade 6 at South School (boarded up) - and Mr. Secord's Grade 4 class where everyone was incredibly tall, and I was very, very small. I did my Grade ... 8? ... speech on the new church that we were building, with the big humongous window at the back of the platform that looked out at the trees. I knew every corner of that space, from the time the foundations were laid until it was fully built.

Wiped out on my bike once, on the way home from highschool. Hands got tangled, so I landed and skidded on my face. That was pretty. Picked myself up to find the church custodian standing on the sidewalk, quietly asking if I was OK. With all my dignity, I proclaimed that I was quite fine, and he graciously pretended not to notice that the lower half of my face was bleeding and swollen.

Fell in and out of love several times.

Rode around in various pickup trucks throughout my teens, and to this day, my idea of the perfect road trip would be in a Ford pickup - but this time I want to drive!

I know why ginseng is a tough crop to get started, and all my friends made scads of money working tobacco. I hung out in Port Dover long before it became a tourist-y place where bikers go.

Was in the same class as NHL hockey player Rob Blake. Didn't matter to me at the time, but I cite it with pride now.

If we wanted to do a serious shopping trip, we went to the new mall in Brantford - very exciting.

Played flute all through highschool. Crazy teacher named Rick Debicki that we all loved, and also all feared, a little bit.

Ate at Yin's in Waterford, before and after the tornado hit.

Had a few BFFE's. Don't know where they are now, except a couple.

But I do still have my "First Annual Lynn River Dry Boat Regatta" t-shirt - it's my favourite, in the jammie department!

Simcoe is a good town.

I'm headed back there today, for Anita's funeral. Awesome lady full of laughter and love. Easy going and fun. I think she might have taught me in Pioneer Girls, but truthfully - I'm not sure.

But she mattered to me, somehow. And I'm sorry she's gone, even though I haven't seen her in years and years. I'm happy for the chance to honour her life.

And I'm happy for the chance to go back to the place from whence I came, just for a few hours.

happy anniversary to us!

Seventeen years today of me and Spike! And despite my foot in his sandwich last week, we're still good to go.

holiday food with a twist

You've probably eaten all kinds of sugar-saturated, fat-loaded, carb-heavy foods over the last several weeks. I know I have.

And, of course, New Year's Day is the last day for such indulgence. After that, it's back to a strict regimen of water and celery.

Not really. I'm just making a point there, with a huge overstatement. I'm assuming you got that.

Yesterday, it was just Spike and me for New Year's Day. (It was just us for New Year's Eve too, which was nice. Means you can toast at midnight in your jammies.)

Spike and I decided to spend a big part of the day with our new Christmas toys. See, with our 17th anniversary coming up, we decided to go together on our Christmas present this year, on something that would greatly enhance our marriage, you know, spice it up a bit, as it were. Can't get into a rut.

So we got an XBox.

People doubt us, thinking I got scammed on this gift, because Spike is a gamer, and I'm not. But I did not get scammed. There were other pieces to the gift, which I'll talk about some other time. But meanwhile - we are XBox-ing together, and Spike is being very patient with me as I attempt to make simple jumps over and over again, using up all my virtual lives.

We've been playing Indiana Jones - Lego Version. It's pretty funny.

You're wondering what this has to do with holiday food, aren't you? I'm getting there. Have patience.

We played for a long time - hours. And our house is in Christmas chaos still, with random things strewn everywhere. You have to walk carefully through our living room.

Partway through the day, I whipped together some leftover turkey sandwiches on cheese buns, and we took our plates back to the game, and continued playing, snatching bites in between Lego battles. And of course, it takes two hands to fight Lego battles, so the plates had to get set down somewhere while we played.

Some time later - we don't know how long - Spike went to grab his sandwich, which he had placed on the chair in front of him. "Hey!!!" he hollered, and when I looked, he pointed down.

There was his sandwich.

And there was my leg stretched out, left foot sitting solidly right on top of that cheese bun sandwich, using it as a foot rest.