I had a request to tell the saga of my "new car," and decided that its 1st anniversary of belonging to me would be a good time to celebrate all that the poor dear has survived during this first year.
Thanksgiving weekend, 2008: My grandfather bought my car as a graduate school graduation present.
January, 2009: I walked out of my apartment on the second morning of my internship, on the phone for the umpteenth time with AT&T trying to get my internet turned on. I got in my car and around the same time finally got connected to a live human being on the other end of the phone. I put my car in reverse and heard a little scrape as as I back up, but assumed I was dragging a branch. I was too busy yelling at the AT&T rep to let a little branch slow me down. By the Grace of God, one of the maintenance workers at my apartment complex (I'll call him Henry) saw me backing out and flagged me down to stop before I put the car in drive. I hung up on my human and got out of the car. My "branch" turned out to be a concrete parking stop. A giant bolt was sticking out of the top and had hung under the front bumper of my new car. I drug the entire parking stop out of the parking space, and had I put the car in drive, I would have certainly ruined some of the under-parts of my car. Unfortunately, the bolt was too tall for Henry to simply scoot the parking stop out from under my car. It hung on the front bumper (still haven't figured out how I got it stuck under there in the first place). I suggested using the jack to raise the car. At this point another apartment resident pulled into the parking lot and got out to help. He and Henry jacked up the car, but it would not go high enough to get the parking stop out. Finally, Henry had to retrieve a giant saw and saw the bolt off so that the whole thing could finally get dragged out.
March, 2009: I drove from Houston to Austin for a career fair. On the way back I drove through a construction zone that had recently opened for thru-traffic. At the edge of Austin, I began to feel my car shaking and making a "ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk" sound. I pulled over to see if I had a flat, but all of my tires appeared to be properly inflated. As I slowly pulled back onto the main road, the shaking seemed to subside, however, as I gained speed it began full force. My steering wheel was even visibly moving. I called a good friend from Bastrop that works in Austin, hoping that he might be near me and able to help. He suggested that maybe a weight had flown off one of my tires and directed me to the nearest tire store where he promised to meet me. I hobbled down the road in the slow lane, afraid to drive too fast for fear of really hurting my tires, wheels or car in general. When I got to the tire store, I told the person working what my car's symptoms were, and followed him out to have a look. In one quick glance he said, "I can tell you exactly what's wrong. You've got about 3 extra pounds of tar on your tires." He said that it wouldn't hurt to drive it like that and the tar should wear off, but it would be annoying for awhile. He directed me to a high-pressure car wash, where my friend ended up meeting me. If anyone is wondering, high pressure hoses do not take tar off off tires. We ended up using our fingernails and screwdrivers to peel off as much as possible, but barely made a dent in the tar. It did eventually wear off on my way to Houston. And I got stuck in a storm halfway home.
April, 2009: My friends came to visit for my birthday. We all went downtown in my car to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe. I was at a stoplight, which might or might not have been green, and felt a tap from behind. "Did that guy just hit you?" one of my friends asked. Um...yes. I got out of the car to assess the situation and talk to the guy in the car behind me. Fortunately, there were no scars and we went our separate ways.
June, 2009: I was in a hurry on the way to a friend's house to meet the IKEA delivery man. I was driving around 65 mph in the center lane of a 3 lane highway. I saw brake lights ahead, but but traffic started moving normally so I didn't decrease my speed. All of a sudden, I saw a large object in the middle of the road that turned out to be a ladder. Going 65 mph, there was no physical way to stop short of it (not to mention I would most certainly be rear-ended if I tried). With cars in the lanes on either side of me, changing lanes was also not an option, so I gritted my teeth and tried to straddle it (in my low-rider car), knowing that I would surely strip the oil pan. I heard a quick "SCRAPE!!" and looked for my oil light (or any others) to come on and expected my car to begin shaking or pulling. I intended to pull over to assess the damage, but when nothing unusual happened immediately, I decided to try to make it the rest of the way to my friend's house. I called him pretty shaken up (poor guy was also the one sitting next to me during the rear-ending incident), and he promised to look the car over when I arrived. He didn't see anything unusual, but we decided it was still a good idea to drive it to the shop and have it officially checked out. I called the Honda house and told them what happened and they said to bring it in. I mapped out a route that did not require me to get on the highway just in case I needed to pull over quickly. I got there and a mechanic immediately greeted me. I explained to him why I was there, and he said "well let's put it on the lift and you and I can look at it together." He grabbed a flashlight and we walked under the car and saw nothing! Well, almost nothing. He pointed out a small spot that was scraped and said "that's all I see, and it may not even be from the ladder." I saw the spot to which he was referring and said, "no, I'm pretty sure I know what that's from." Give the ridiculous ladder scenario about which I had just told him, I decided it best not to tell him that the scrape in question was mostly likely due to the time I got the parking stop stuck under the car. (He also asked me at one point whether it was a wooden or fiberglass ladder. Seriously?? If I had had time to analyze the ladder I would have had time to stop!)
Fortunately (knock-on-wood), I haven't had anymore incidents like these since then. The car, somehow, still looks almost new. I'm pretty sure it could withstand a hurricane.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Things that should never be said out loud v.1
For awhile now I've been wanting to keep a running list of "things that should never be said out loud." The thing is, you only realize that things shouldn't be said out loud until they have, in fact, been voiced. The first few that came to mind are posted here, but rest assured that there are more installments to come.
- It is bad to drink meat flavored coffee on Fridays of Lent?
- I found a dirty sock in my purse.
- I've never actually brushed my armpits with my toothbrush.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Word of the day: Fork
Due to popular demand, I am devoting an entire blog entry to a household object that does not receive nearly enough credit for its brilliance. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the fork. I honestly do not have any particular fondness for forks, although I recognize that they generally help me to "keep it classy" while eating. I do, however, enjoy ridiculous scenarios, and the fork is a common theme to the 2 ridiculous scenarios that follow:
The Flaming Fork (From an e-mail that I wrote in January. Republished with permission from myself.)
Who catches a fork on fire? Apparently I do. I didn't even know forks were flammable. I went home for a casual, uneventful lunch. I heated up some turkey in a cast iron skillet for my wrap. Then I went about my business eating my wrap and grapes. I thought I smelled something burning, and went to make sure that I had turned the stove off. The red glowing skillet was my cue that maybe I had forgotten that minor detail. And I had also forgotten to take my fork with the blue plastic handle out of it. It goes without saying that the plastic handle was in the midst of a meltdown when I arrived on the scene, and part of it immediately decided to flop over the side of the skillet, onto the burner, and burst into flames. My mind flashed back to the fire extinguisher clause in my lease that said I owed $12.50 if I had to use it. I remember laughing and thinking that the money would be the least of my worries if I was using a fire extinguisher, but thinking to myself that obviously I would never have to cross that bridge. Luckily, I was able to blow out the fire, and a few more minor ones that arose from pools of melted fork material. Then my smoke detector went off, and I was trying wildly to shut it off and take control of the situation. I moved the skillet from the hot burner (which was off by this point) took out as much of the fork as I could (the metal eating part at least), turned on the vent hood over the stove, and opened all of my windows. When I came back to work, I had to close the place back up, so I'm bound to come home to a nice smokey residence. I just hope the smoke detector doesn't decide to start singing while I'm gone.
Dating skills (Shared with permission from the one who doesn't know how to use a fork.)
Last night a friend of mine came over to hang out and be girly. We hit up the usual places (Barnes and Noble and Target), then came back to my place for some girl-talk and the Office. Out of the blue, my girlfriend asks "How do you hold your fork when you cut your food?" Did I mention that this friend is 24 years old? I'm pretty sure I looked at her like she was crazy.
"Which hand to you cut with?" she asked.
"My right" I said (I'm right handed).
"And do you hold your fork like this in the left?" she asked. I looked to see her hand formed as to hold what I can only hope she meant to be an imaginary ice pick...because civilized people certainly don't eat that way (in public anyway).
"No," I told her, "like this," and I showed her the way that we humans do it.
It's really quite hard to cut pretend meat with pretend utensils. I wanted to make sure she had it down, I went to the kitchen and brought back a knife and a fork for each of us to practice. By the end of the ordeal, I'm pretty sure we got her to become a master food-cutter-and-eater.
While I am quite amused that my 24-year old friend only learned to properly hold her fork yesterday, her motivation for doing so is even more impressive: She is preparing for a first date next week (her first first date in awhile). I applaud her efforts to become more refined in the name of love, but the upcoming date is a coffee date. I bet her date will be very impressed if she can gracefully cut and eat her coffee.
The Flaming Fork (From an e-mail that I wrote in January. Republished with permission from myself.)
Who catches a fork on fire? Apparently I do. I didn't even know forks were flammable. I went home for a casual, uneventful lunch. I heated up some turkey in a cast iron skillet for my wrap. Then I went about my business eating my wrap and grapes. I thought I smelled something burning, and went to make sure that I had turned the stove off. The red glowing skillet was my cue that maybe I had forgotten that minor detail. And I had also forgotten to take my fork with the blue plastic handle out of it. It goes without saying that the plastic handle was in the midst of a meltdown when I arrived on the scene, and part of it immediately decided to flop over the side of the skillet, onto the burner, and burst into flames. My mind flashed back to the fire extinguisher clause in my lease that said I owed $12.50 if I had to use it. I remember laughing and thinking that the money would be the least of my worries if I was using a fire extinguisher, but thinking to myself that obviously I would never have to cross that bridge. Luckily, I was able to blow out the fire, and a few more minor ones that arose from pools of melted fork material. Then my smoke detector went off, and I was trying wildly to shut it off and take control of the situation. I moved the skillet from the hot burner (which was off by this point) took out as much of the fork as I could (the metal eating part at least), turned on the vent hood over the stove, and opened all of my windows. When I came back to work, I had to close the place back up, so I'm bound to come home to a nice smokey residence. I just hope the smoke detector doesn't decide to start singing while I'm gone.
Dating skills (Shared with permission from the one who doesn't know how to use a fork.)
Last night a friend of mine came over to hang out and be girly. We hit up the usual places (Barnes and Noble and Target), then came back to my place for some girl-talk and the Office. Out of the blue, my girlfriend asks "How do you hold your fork when you cut your food?" Did I mention that this friend is 24 years old? I'm pretty sure I looked at her like she was crazy.
"Which hand to you cut with?" she asked.
"My right" I said (I'm right handed).
"And do you hold your fork like this in the left?" she asked. I looked to see her hand formed as to hold what I can only hope she meant to be an imaginary ice pick...because civilized people certainly don't eat that way (in public anyway).
"No," I told her, "like this," and I showed her the way that we humans do it.
It's really quite hard to cut pretend meat with pretend utensils. I wanted to make sure she had it down, I went to the kitchen and brought back a knife and a fork for each of us to practice. By the end of the ordeal, I'm pretty sure we got her to become a master food-cutter-and-eater.
While I am quite amused that my 24-year old friend only learned to properly hold her fork yesterday, her motivation for doing so is even more impressive: She is preparing for a first date next week (her first first date in awhile). I applaud her efforts to become more refined in the name of love, but the upcoming date is a coffee date. I bet her date will be very impressed if she can gracefully cut and eat her coffee.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Nun Habits
My struggle to be on consistently good behavior is still going full force, but I think perhaps it's getting easier to be joyful and patient on a semi-regular basis. I have some great work-related travel opportunities ahead, and maybe it's just that I want to be sure that I still get to go. However, I'd like to think that I'm becoming a more virtuous person in general.
This week I noticed myself doing something that I could have only picked up from the nuns. When anything in the office goes the slightest bit wrong (computer trouble, you name it), my supervisor mumbles an intercession to a saint. I happen to be a bit of a wuss when it comes to traffic (specifically heavy traffic, fast traffic, roads with more than 2 lanes, anyone switching lanes or merging, large trucks, trucks with stuff in the back, low-riders, I-35 or any highway in Houston, and brake lights). You can imagine that I was quite a basketcase to be riding shotgun with a friend who was speeding down I-35 and frequently changing lanes due to cars merging onto the highway or braking. I'm pretty sure that I invoked the intercession of just about every saint I could think of during that ride...and held on for dear life.
This week I noticed myself doing something that I could have only picked up from the nuns. When anything in the office goes the slightest bit wrong (computer trouble, you name it), my supervisor mumbles an intercession to a saint. I happen to be a bit of a wuss when it comes to traffic (specifically heavy traffic, fast traffic, roads with more than 2 lanes, anyone switching lanes or merging, large trucks, trucks with stuff in the back, low-riders, I-35 or any highway in Houston, and brake lights). You can imagine that I was quite a basketcase to be riding shotgun with a friend who was speeding down I-35 and frequently changing lanes due to cars merging onto the highway or braking. I'm pretty sure that I invoked the intercession of just about every saint I could think of during that ride...and held on for dear life.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Not quite Utopia
A few weekends ago a friend and I went to the Austin City Limits music festival (ACL). Tickets to the event are fairly expensive and must be purchased months in advance. We had been looking forward to the experience for awhile, and we were determined to have $xxx.xx of fun.
A little history of my love for deodorant: When I was in 8th grade, my US History teacher assigned a "Utopia project." Each group had to come up with a limited number of rules that must be followed in a Utopian society. Somehow, I convinced the rest of my group (or manipulated, but who's really keeping track?) that one of the absolute necessities for a Utopian society was for all members to wear deodorant, and it became a law. I have also had a fetish for men's deodorant for quite sometime. One of my college friends used to give me his old deodorant bottles so that I could smell them...but that's probably too much information.
Still, by the time I realized that I had not put on deodorant before leaving for the music festival, it was too late. We had already parked downtown and had walked most of the way to the park. Neither of us had any in our bags. Luckily, I'm not much of a sweater, and Austin is a pretty forgiving city (I was going natural). Nonetheless, when I did my laundry a few days later and came across the shirt from that day, my love affair with deodorant was renewed.
We did have $xxx.xx of fun. The music was fantastic, and we realized, as B would say, that "Dave Matthews is one sexy beast!" Who knew?
The festival is held outdoors in Austin's Zilker Park, and because it would be impossible to re-schedule that many bands for another weekend, the festival is held rain or shine. In the past ACL has been in September, and historically it falls on one of the hottest weekends of the summer. This year we were excited that it was pushed back to October. My friend and I are big fans of Fall (note the capital 'F.' That's how much we love it.), so we envisioned cool breezes in the lush (new) grass of Zilker...which would have been nice.
We began checking the forecast for the weekend as soon as we were within 10 days, and with each passing day the chance of rain increased. By the time the big day arrived, I decided that I should invest in a poncho. Unfortunately, there were none to be had in any of the nearby stores. I finally wound up in a hardware store that was sold out of ponchos, but had yellow rain suits complete with a jacket, an attachable hood, and pants. I had a winner (although wearing the contraption I'm sure I looked like a loser. For the record, I didn't wear the pants.).
The rains definitely came. Fortunately, it only rained during 1 of the 4 concerts we saw on the first day. Unfortunately, it rained between all of them. During Flogging Molly, the rainy concert, we were standing in front of a group of guys with umbrellas. I'm not sure if we wound up under their umbrellas because they were being nice, or because we were in such close quarters. But wind up under their umbrellas we did...sort of. We were really half-shielded from the rain by the umbrellas, which meant that all of the umbrella run-off wound up on the other half of our bodies. By the end of the day though, it didn't really matter. Everyone was soaked, and the place was a mess. So much for the new grass.
By day 2 I had decided to forgo wearing shoes. They were more of a hazard than a protection, as my shoes were inclined to stay in the mud rather than on my feet while walking. Unfortunately, on day 2 I realized that I had also forgotten something very important--deodorant. And day 2 was hot.
A little history of my love for deodorant: When I was in 8th grade, my US History teacher assigned a "Utopia project." Each group had to come up with a limited number of rules that must be followed in a Utopian society. Somehow, I convinced the rest of my group (or manipulated, but who's really keeping track?) that one of the absolute necessities for a Utopian society was for all members to wear deodorant, and it became a law. I have also had a fetish for men's deodorant for quite sometime. One of my college friends used to give me his old deodorant bottles so that I could smell them...but that's probably too much information.
Still, by the time I realized that I had not put on deodorant before leaving for the music festival, it was too late. We had already parked downtown and had walked most of the way to the park. Neither of us had any in our bags. Luckily, I'm not much of a sweater, and Austin is a pretty forgiving city (I was going natural). Nonetheless, when I did my laundry a few days later and came across the shirt from that day, my love affair with deodorant was renewed.
We did have $xxx.xx of fun. The music was fantastic, and we realized, as B would say, that "Dave Matthews is one sexy beast!" Who knew?
Monday, October 19, 2009
The one with the really bad food
I do not consider myself a particularly picky eater. Certainly there are foods that I do not prefer, and I would never cook them at home nor would I order them off a menu. However, I must admit that there is one food that I despise more than any other on this planet: papaya.
My first encounter with papaya occurred when I was staying with the sisters in San Antonio. Until that point, I had never disliked a fruit, so I put a large helping on my plate. It only took one bite to realize that the fruit had the unmistakable aftertaste of vomit. I ate the other things on my plate, waiting for someone else to recognize that the papaya was obviously spoiled. As it turned out, one of the sisters exclaimed that the papaya was exceptionally good, and everyone else nodded in agreement. I vowed never to touch the stuff again in my life. I have actually walked through the produce section of the grocery store and felt my stomach church, only to realize that I have gotten too near the papaya display.
Fast forward to breakfast this morning with the Sisters. A bowl of papaya on the table. I had turned down the opportunity to engage in such a delight a few weeks ago because it was on the table in front of me (holding my breath...) but no one specifically asked me to take any and I filled my plate with other things. Today, however, I was passed the papaya with nobody else to pass it onto, thought it would be rude to turn it down. I took two small pieces and swallowed as quickly as possible. My stomach actually did a bit of a sick somersault as I was helping with clean up. The cutting board must certainly have been used in cutting up the dreadful fruit, and still held the smell of vomit.
On another note, I realized that I never provided a tiramisu update. You can probably guess that all did not go as planned or I would not be including it in this particular blog entry.
I used to believe that I was a relatively good cook. Taking into consideration the episodes with the hot pink cinnamon cake, the caving in fruity birthday cake, and the "healthy" brownies with pieces of grass and sticks, I have come to the realization that while I enjoy cooking, I am not really all that good at it. Still, I had recently made my first tiramisu which turned out well, so I had confidence that #2 would be no big deal. Perhaps this confidence is what led to my careless mistake that is the likely cause for this epic fail (ok, it wasn't quite an epic fail, but definitely not a winner either). I whipped my egg yolks for the specified amount of time, until they were thick and light yellow, then I mixed in the rest of the ingredients to make the creamy layers. The mixture was way too soupy, partially because I had decided that the mascarpone would be easier to blend if I let it soften while I whipped the egg yolks (a reasonable assumption), but mostly because I had left out the sugar, which was to be whipped with the egg yolks for a thicker consistency. I whipped some sugar into the mixture, but it really had no hope of survival. I poured (not spread) the mixture over the first layer of ladyfingers, and it just pooled at the bottom. I had the idea of whipping it more, and I also tried cooling it in the refrigerator to make it thick, but nothing would help.
Tiramisu is expensive to make, and combined with the late hour of this project, I looked for the next best fix to starting anew. I knew that the tiramisu would taste good, but it looked anything but appetizing. If I had made it for my friends, I would have told them the story, we would have had a good laugh, and everyone would eat it anyway. But this one was being served to my boss, the rest of the Sisters, the church staff, and the priest. When I told my boss what had happened, she suggested putting it in the freezer. She had not seen it yet. I told her that wouldn't work, because the underlying problems went way beyond temperature. Upon seeing my concoction, she agreed.
Luckily, I am a chocolate pudding fiend. My friends laugh about the massive amounts of chocolate pudding and cool whip that I consume on a daily basis, but I always secretly knew that my habit would have benefits. Because of this addiction, I buy cool whip in bulk, so I happened to have a brand new container in my freezer. I brought it to work, spread it over the tiramisu-like blob, sprinkled that with cocoa, and aside from the startlingly white color, no one could tell that they were eating a cooking disaster. I was even asked for the recipe.
My first encounter with papaya occurred when I was staying with the sisters in San Antonio. Until that point, I had never disliked a fruit, so I put a large helping on my plate. It only took one bite to realize that the fruit had the unmistakable aftertaste of vomit. I ate the other things on my plate, waiting for someone else to recognize that the papaya was obviously spoiled. As it turned out, one of the sisters exclaimed that the papaya was exceptionally good, and everyone else nodded in agreement. I vowed never to touch the stuff again in my life. I have actually walked through the produce section of the grocery store and felt my stomach church, only to realize that I have gotten too near the papaya display.
Fast forward to breakfast this morning with the Sisters. A bowl of papaya on the table. I had turned down the opportunity to engage in such a delight a few weeks ago because it was on the table in front of me (holding my breath...) but no one specifically asked me to take any and I filled my plate with other things. Today, however, I was passed the papaya with nobody else to pass it onto, thought it would be rude to turn it down. I took two small pieces and swallowed as quickly as possible. My stomach actually did a bit of a sick somersault as I was helping with clean up. The cutting board must certainly have been used in cutting up the dreadful fruit, and still held the smell of vomit.
On another note, I realized that I never provided a tiramisu update. You can probably guess that all did not go as planned or I would not be including it in this particular blog entry.
I used to believe that I was a relatively good cook. Taking into consideration the episodes with the hot pink cinnamon cake, the caving in fruity birthday cake, and the "healthy" brownies with pieces of grass and sticks, I have come to the realization that while I enjoy cooking, I am not really all that good at it. Still, I had recently made my first tiramisu which turned out well, so I had confidence that #2 would be no big deal. Perhaps this confidence is what led to my careless mistake that is the likely cause for this epic fail (ok, it wasn't quite an epic fail, but definitely not a winner either). I whipped my egg yolks for the specified amount of time, until they were thick and light yellow, then I mixed in the rest of the ingredients to make the creamy layers. The mixture was way too soupy, partially because I had decided that the mascarpone would be easier to blend if I let it soften while I whipped the egg yolks (a reasonable assumption), but mostly because I had left out the sugar, which was to be whipped with the egg yolks for a thicker consistency. I whipped some sugar into the mixture, but it really had no hope of survival. I poured (not spread) the mixture over the first layer of ladyfingers, and it just pooled at the bottom. I had the idea of whipping it more, and I also tried cooling it in the refrigerator to make it thick, but nothing would help.
Tiramisu is expensive to make, and combined with the late hour of this project, I looked for the next best fix to starting anew. I knew that the tiramisu would taste good, but it looked anything but appetizing. If I had made it for my friends, I would have told them the story, we would have had a good laugh, and everyone would eat it anyway. But this one was being served to my boss, the rest of the Sisters, the church staff, and the priest. When I told my boss what had happened, she suggested putting it in the freezer. She had not seen it yet. I told her that wouldn't work, because the underlying problems went way beyond temperature. Upon seeing my concoction, she agreed.
Luckily, I am a chocolate pudding fiend. My friends laugh about the massive amounts of chocolate pudding and cool whip that I consume on a daily basis, but I always secretly knew that my habit would have benefits. Because of this addiction, I buy cool whip in bulk, so I happened to have a brand new container in my freezer. I brought it to work, spread it over the tiramisu-like blob, sprinkled that with cocoa, and aside from the startlingly white color, no one could tell that they were eating a cooking disaster. I was even asked for the recipe.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Shower of Ideas
Sorry that it's taken me this long to post another update. My computer was on the fritz for a bit, to the point where I could quickly check my e-mail and respond to anything urgent before my computer froze up for good. All I had wanted to do last Friday evening after a long week on the road was snuggle up and watch Grey's Anatomy, which unfortunately my computer would not permit. Luckily, my parents were here last weekend and my dad got me fixed up.
The job is going well for the most part. The drawback to working for a nun is that I must be on my best behavior at all times. We share an office, so I must literally be good all day. The way I see it, being on my best behavior at work all day has 2 potential outcomes: 1) I get used to always being cheerful, helpful and holy and that becomes my permanent disposition; or 2) I get sick of being on my best behavior all day and switch to being a bit of a pessimist/jerk the rest of the time. So far, the trend has been in favor of option #2. Anyone reading this knows (hopefully) that I'm not really a jerk, but that I am independent and sometimes opinionated, and I have a hard time being entirely subservient to my boss. I'm using this time as a lesson in the virtues of patience and humility.
One thing that can be said is that, for better or worse, there is never a dull moment at work. Last week on the way home from a service fair in San Marcos, we stopped at Cabela's. Not really the place that you expect to see a nun in a habit. No, Sister is not preparing for a hunting or camping trip, but we are getting ready to host a group of volunteers at the end of the year. Our new place has great office space and some classrooms that we can use for our training sessions, but we are severely lacking in living space for our volunteers when they stay with us for almost 3 weeks. Although we can easily convert a classroom into sleeping quarters, the most significant problem is that there are currently no showers in the building. Sister had the idea that we could transform the handicap stall in the girls' bathroom into a shower (not by actually remodeling, but by temporarily hooking up a portable shower or hose). Portable showers are sometimes used during camping, hence we went to Cabela's to check them out.
The idea raised several red flags in my mind. First of all, I asked if there was a drain in the bathroom. I envisioned the flood that would occur as volunteers unleash a shower of water directly onto the bathroom floor. She assured me that there is indeed a drain, although as it turns out the drain is not positioned in our potential shower area. I still foresee a bit of a flood, not to mention a lot of really wet toilet paper. Secondly, portable showers need to be connected to a water source, and stringing a hose across the bathroom doesn't seem like such a fantastic idea to me. For one thing, a standard hose for a portable shower seems to be 4' long--not long enough to stretch from the faucet all the way to the stall. And we still need some way to fasten it or else the volunteer will be forced to hold it the entire time. If dropped, such a short hose is likely to fall on the outside of the stall (toward the sink where it's connected), forcing a naked volunteer to retrieve it. Strike two. Because we will have at least 4 volunteers, Sister came up with the idea that we could connect showers to both sinks. One volunteer could shower in the stall and another outside the stall...in the MIDDLE OF THE BATHROOM! Oh, but wearing a bathing suit. Personally, I don't actually bathe in my bathing suit. Somehow I feel like crucial areas may be neglected with that approach.
2 other ideas have been thrown around regarding potential locations for showers (the girls' bathroom actually being my preferred location of the 3). The 2nd location is the boys' bathroom (for the girls to shower). The idea was that again, one volunteer could shower in the stall, but the boys' bathroom has the advantage of having more open floor space for another volunteer to shower outside of the stall and next to the urinals!!! GROSS! I just cannot imagine feeling clean when the same water that is supposed to be making me clean is ricocheting off of a urinal and back onto me. However, I still think that option 2 may be better than the latest idea. One day this week we were coming back from lunch, and Sister excitedly asked me to follow her because she had something to show me downstairs. She opens a door that proves to be the janitor's closet. In her mind this space is ideal because it already has a floor drain and some raised sides so that water does not escape when the janitor washes out his mop. The entire closet is no larger than an ordinary shower stall, but reeks of chemicals. In this scenario, the volunteer would be trapped inside the very small but steamy and potent closet, which opens directly into the main hallway. I would imagine that a bathing suit would be necessary here as well, because I'm not sure who would be comfortable showering naked in a janitor's closet that opens up in to the main hallway of the CCD building. Perhaps it wouldn't the that big of a deal, because I'm not sure that there is even a light in the closet.
As it turns out, we did not purchase anything from Cabela's. Operation Shower is still in the works. I'll provide an update when a decision has been made.
The job is going well for the most part. The drawback to working for a nun is that I must be on my best behavior at all times. We share an office, so I must literally be good all day. The way I see it, being on my best behavior at work all day has 2 potential outcomes: 1) I get used to always being cheerful, helpful and holy and that becomes my permanent disposition; or 2) I get sick of being on my best behavior all day and switch to being a bit of a pessimist/jerk the rest of the time. So far, the trend has been in favor of option #2. Anyone reading this knows (hopefully) that I'm not really a jerk, but that I am independent and sometimes opinionated, and I have a hard time being entirely subservient to my boss. I'm using this time as a lesson in the virtues of patience and humility.
One thing that can be said is that, for better or worse, there is never a dull moment at work. Last week on the way home from a service fair in San Marcos, we stopped at Cabela's. Not really the place that you expect to see a nun in a habit. No, Sister is not preparing for a hunting or camping trip, but we are getting ready to host a group of volunteers at the end of the year. Our new place has great office space and some classrooms that we can use for our training sessions, but we are severely lacking in living space for our volunteers when they stay with us for almost 3 weeks. Although we can easily convert a classroom into sleeping quarters, the most significant problem is that there are currently no showers in the building. Sister had the idea that we could transform the handicap stall in the girls' bathroom into a shower (not by actually remodeling, but by temporarily hooking up a portable shower or hose). Portable showers are sometimes used during camping, hence we went to Cabela's to check them out.
The idea raised several red flags in my mind. First of all, I asked if there was a drain in the bathroom. I envisioned the flood that would occur as volunteers unleash a shower of water directly onto the bathroom floor. She assured me that there is indeed a drain, although as it turns out the drain is not positioned in our potential shower area. I still foresee a bit of a flood, not to mention a lot of really wet toilet paper. Secondly, portable showers need to be connected to a water source, and stringing a hose across the bathroom doesn't seem like such a fantastic idea to me. For one thing, a standard hose for a portable shower seems to be 4' long--not long enough to stretch from the faucet all the way to the stall. And we still need some way to fasten it or else the volunteer will be forced to hold it the entire time. If dropped, such a short hose is likely to fall on the outside of the stall (toward the sink where it's connected), forcing a naked volunteer to retrieve it. Strike two. Because we will have at least 4 volunteers, Sister came up with the idea that we could connect showers to both sinks. One volunteer could shower in the stall and another outside the stall...in the MIDDLE OF THE BATHROOM! Oh, but wearing a bathing suit. Personally, I don't actually bathe in my bathing suit. Somehow I feel like crucial areas may be neglected with that approach.
2 other ideas have been thrown around regarding potential locations for showers (the girls' bathroom actually being my preferred location of the 3). The 2nd location is the boys' bathroom (for the girls to shower). The idea was that again, one volunteer could shower in the stall, but the boys' bathroom has the advantage of having more open floor space for another volunteer to shower outside of the stall and next to the urinals!!! GROSS! I just cannot imagine feeling clean when the same water that is supposed to be making me clean is ricocheting off of a urinal and back onto me. However, I still think that option 2 may be better than the latest idea. One day this week we were coming back from lunch, and Sister excitedly asked me to follow her because she had something to show me downstairs. She opens a door that proves to be the janitor's closet. In her mind this space is ideal because it already has a floor drain and some raised sides so that water does not escape when the janitor washes out his mop. The entire closet is no larger than an ordinary shower stall, but reeks of chemicals. In this scenario, the volunteer would be trapped inside the very small but steamy and potent closet, which opens directly into the main hallway. I would imagine that a bathing suit would be necessary here as well, because I'm not sure who would be comfortable showering naked in a janitor's closet that opens up in to the main hallway of the CCD building. Perhaps it wouldn't the that big of a deal, because I'm not sure that there is even a light in the closet.
As it turns out, we did not purchase anything from Cabela's. Operation Shower is still in the works. I'll provide an update when a decision has been made.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The daily grind
I've been in my new job for 3 weeks now, although I've barely begun to perform any of the tasks in my job description. Just when I am relieved to have unpacked what appears to be the last box, my supervisor the nun asks if I can please drive pick her up at the convent on my way back from lunch so that we can bring more boxes. I have learned that we still have approximately 15 boxes in her garage. Happily, we have unpacked most of the uber-important office-things and we finally have internet, so we are getting ready to jump into some sort of routine.
Last week I went to an Italian potluck at a friend's house and tried my hand at making tiramisu, one of my all time favorite desserts (hard liquor, coffee, and cookies...really, how can you go wrong?). I told Sister that I was going to try to make it, and she had the idea that we could have tiramisu at our open house--and I could make it. In all of the business of unpacking and settling in, I hadn't heard much about the tiramisu and hoped that perhaps she had forgotten...that is until one of the other Sisters expressed her excitement about the tiramisu that I would be making for them.
Speaking of things that are not in my job description, I was volunteered to teach computers 2 days a week. In college I was the resident techie of my household of 4 girls. The only reason that I was credited with having any computer knowledge was that the internet modem and router stayed in my bedroom, and my dad (who actually knows what he's doing) was only a phone call away. Needless to say, I don't actually know much about computers, although I am able to perform most of the tasks that 5th graders would probably need to be doing. However, I am not sure the objective of this "class," nor do I know what age the kids will be (I was told that I can have whatever ages I want). Additionally, instead of operating Windows, these computers run Linux, which I have very little knowledge of--and half of them are set to Spanish. I was supposed to have already begun my classes, but fortunately they were postponed when the person in charge realized that the computers do not have any programs installed. Safe for another week!
Last week I went to an Italian potluck at a friend's house and tried my hand at making tiramisu, one of my all time favorite desserts (hard liquor, coffee, and cookies...really, how can you go wrong?). I told Sister that I was going to try to make it, and she had the idea that we could have tiramisu at our open house--and I could make it. In all of the business of unpacking and settling in, I hadn't heard much about the tiramisu and hoped that perhaps she had forgotten...that is until one of the other Sisters expressed her excitement about the tiramisu that I would be making for them.
Speaking of things that are not in my job description, I was volunteered to teach computers 2 days a week. In college I was the resident techie of my household of 4 girls. The only reason that I was credited with having any computer knowledge was that the internet modem and router stayed in my bedroom, and my dad (who actually knows what he's doing) was only a phone call away. Needless to say, I don't actually know much about computers, although I am able to perform most of the tasks that 5th graders would probably need to be doing. However, I am not sure the objective of this "class," nor do I know what age the kids will be (I was told that I can have whatever ages I want). Additionally, instead of operating Windows, these computers run Linux, which I have very little knowledge of--and half of them are set to Spanish. I was supposed to have already begun my classes, but fortunately they were postponed when the person in charge realized that the computers do not have any programs installed. Safe for another week!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Series of Unfortunate Events
In response to the demands of my fan base, I have decided to create a blog to chronicle the ridiculous scenarios that inevitably make their way into my day-to-day life (as well as other thoughts and happenings). It's also a great opportunity to do some non-academic writing, which I haven't done in a very, very long time.
The first week of my new job was mostly spent unpacking and getting our office set up, with the exception of a more eventful Friday that included the worst Office Depot trip ever, and getting lost taking my boss to the bus station, thanks to napkin directions that were like a bad game of telephone (the exit for FM 2222 changed into "exit 222" and "Shepler's" turned into "Staples"). Additionally, I was late on the first day thanks to a horrific traffic jam on Mopac, I almost got into a wreck with my new boss in the car, and then took her on an accidental tour of southeast Austin when I tried to take an "alternate route" from the bank back to our office.
This week will be devoted to convincing her that I am, in fact, a competent human being.
The first week of my new job was mostly spent unpacking and getting our office set up, with the exception of a more eventful Friday that included the worst Office Depot trip ever, and getting lost taking my boss to the bus station, thanks to napkin directions that were like a bad game of telephone (the exit for FM 2222 changed into "exit 222" and "Shepler's" turned into "Staples"). Additionally, I was late on the first day thanks to a horrific traffic jam on Mopac, I almost got into a wreck with my new boss in the car, and then took her on an accidental tour of southeast Austin when I tried to take an "alternate route" from the bank back to our office.
This week will be devoted to convincing her that I am, in fact, a competent human being.
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