Please e·nun·ci·ate

I have a terrible time with song lyrics. Always have. I don't mean that I don't comprehend the meaning of the lyrics. Generally speaking, that's not the problem. I mean that when I hear an artist SING the song, I can't tell what the words are.

I know I'm not the only one. There were a lot of people who thought that Taylor Swift was singing about Starbucks lovers, not a long list of ex-lovers. 

My friend Adam jokes about there being a "bathroom on the right" when he hears the song "Bad Moon Rising." After watching the movie Clue years ago, my sister Deb thought "Shake, Rattle, and Roll" was "Shake, Bottle the Road."

I love Matt Nathanson. But it took a few listens before I realized he can't stop thinking about the girl in the KINKS shirt, rather than the Girl in the Pink shirt.

Or that song "Do Wah Diddy Diddy"... Yeah, yeah, I get that THOSE are made up words. But the line "I'm hers, she's mine" sounds like "I'm hurt, she's mad" to me. That context matters a lot in terms of a relationship.

My most recent example happened yesterday, when I was driving. Patty Smyth came on the radio. I know the song is titled Warrior, but every time I hear it, I hear, "I am the worrier! Yes, I am the worrier!" Please pass the anxiety medication.

Speaking of which, I'm cooking dinner. Excuse me while I go check on my shook up ramen. Can you believe Def Leppard wrote a song about that?

Good-bye, old friend

I recently parted with my beloved Mazda Protege out of necessity. The frame was rusted through in several places and unsafe to drive. The trip from my driveway to the dealership for the trade-in was painful. It was like my car was singing "And I am telling you, I'm not going..." as I tried to drive her down the road. One of the rear wheels refused to turn as I drove down the street, laying rubber in a stream of smoke. I finally had to call a tow truck. And then I cried as I traveled along side the tow truck with the Protege on the flatbed.

Going through the trade-in process was extra painful after the experience of having to clean out the car. I found the detritus of 12 years of ownership: poems from ex-boyfriends, half-empty bottles of perfume, spilled ibuprofen, tennis balls, invitations to weddings and showers, CDs, earring backs, outdated technology cords, and pens. Lots and lots of pens. I'm not buying any more pens for the rest of my life. In truth, I can't figure out how I got so many writing instruments in my vehicle.

Yup, here are all the writing implements from the car. And before you, ask, YES, Mace Windu (far left) IS indeed a pen.

I am now driving a Pontiac Vibe. This car is a rebound relationship after my love affair with my trusty, beat-up Protege. I don't think it will last me nearly as long and when the time comes to let it go, I'll be pragmatic about its place in my life. In the meantime, thanks for the memories, Protege. You were reliable and unremarkable, but unforgettable.

Overdosing on being online

Ah, technology. Isn't it great? We have unparalleled opportunities to connect with family, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, co-workers, and all manner of fellow humanity. All online! Twenty-four hours a day. Need a job? Send up your own personal bat signal on LinkedIn. Planning your kid's birthday party? Pinterest abounds with inspiration. Oooooh, I have a free moment--I think I'll check Facebook and see what's up. Technology = progress = better lives. Isn't that how the equation should be? In reality, it seems like all this "connection" feeds thoughts of pettiness, insecurity, and jealousy.

As people, we all want to feel an authentic connection to those around us. It's how we're wired. However, there's a fine line between sharing too much and not sharing enough. Have you ever scoffed to yourself about someone's too-perky status update? I've found myself thinking, "Oh, please. You're not the first person in the world to have a kid," or "You're on the beach. I'm hauling out the trash in the middle of January, wading through the snow. Thanks for rubbing it in!" And when a thought like this occurs to me, I don't like the way I feel.

Several of my close circle have decided that they need to delete their Facebook accounts. Some have come back into the fold cautiously after purging their friend lists. Is the solution unplugging from it all? I don't think so. After much introspection and some serious conversations with smart people, I have formed my own simple social media policy.

1. I will accept friend requests only from people I know personally and to whom I want to be connected.
2. I will not allow online pressure to govern my decisions. 
3. I control how much time I spend on any given social network.
4. I control how I react to others' postings.

Honestly, I think number four is key and it's the one on which I've spent the most reflection time. A recent issue of Psychology Today featured an intriguing article called What Happy People Do Differently. One of the sub-sections was titled The Unjealous Friend, where the author says, "What's precious and scarce are those people who can truly share in others' joy and gains without envy." In other words, people who are happy for others are more likely to be happy themselves.

Of course, this isn't a new concept. Take a look at Phil. 4:8: Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things.

Even the most optimistic person in the world still has bad days. You might not talk about them, but everyone has them. No one is exempt. For some people, it may be a coping mechanism to write about the good things to get you through the bad things. Instead of assuming that your friend is trying to prop herself up, assume that she is cultivating an attitude of gratitude.
 
I like the saying, "Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." A little gentleness, online or face-to-face, goes a long way. So, go ahead. Share the joy in your life unabashed and rest assured: I'm rejoicing with you.

Pet peeves part 2

It's been a while since my first post about personal pet peeves. Perhaps a follow-up is in order? Your wish is my command!

Note: I started this post months ago, but was motivated to finish it after experiencing one of my pet peeves last night at dinner. I'll let you guess which one. ;)

Servers who introduce themselves with the line "I'll be taking care of you tonight"

When I go out to eat, I want to enjoy a dinner that I didn't have to cook. However, I'm not completely debilitated. (At least usually!) So when someone pops up to my table and says brightly, "Hi, I'm Susie and I'll be taking care of you tonight," I can't help but be a little befuddled. So, Susie, will you be tucking me into bed and giving me a warm glass of milk too? I know I'm probably over-thinking this, but it's the way my mind works.

Ugly mascots

I've written before about mascots, specifically the mascot of the Eau Claire Express. But in honor of the team's 10th anniversary, a companion mascot named Trix was unveiled. Anyone out there think this is attractive? {You do? Whoops, didn't mean to offend you! In a related matter, have you recently fallen and hit your head?}

I'm intrigued by mascots. I think about how hot it must be to wear the costumes. On a hot summer day, as you're sweating buckets, are you thinking about who wore the costume before you? Does it smell kind of strange? What does it look like viewing the world through a mesh screen while everyone else is looking above your head? Do you have a complex because children run away from you, terrified and afraid? So many questions.

Baseball players with mouthfuls of sunflower seeds in HD

I recently heard someone remark, "Once you see a game in HD, you won't be able to go back to watching sports in lower definition." I don't know if this is true, but I do know that HD has changed the way that I watch TV. I see things I never expected or wanted to see. For example, baseball players spitting mouthfuls of seeds, with little bits of the husk clinging to their mouth. Or worse, scratching themselves or "readjusting." You might spot someone in the crowd picking their nose. I find myself thinking that if I'm ever offered fantastic seats behind home plate or near the dugout, I'll have to decline so I don't embarrass my mother on national TV. HD also means that lip readers don't have work as hard to decipher the profanities that some players spew upon striking out. Ryan Braun, I'm talking about you.

Bowl games with stupid marketing names

I have been a sports fan my whole life. I remember watching the Rose Bowl with my father when I was 8. The next year, Michigan played in the Bluebonnet Bowl. It prompted me to ask my father for an explanation of bowl game selection and invitation process. I don't remember his explanation entirely, but I do remember that he was significantly LESS enthused about the Bluebonnet Bowl.

I became fascinated with bowl games. Now, while I enjoy the games, I am dismayed by the way that marketing has mucked around with the tradition. Look at how the Gator Bowl, started in 1945, has been tagged as the Mazda Gator Bowl, Outback Steakhouse Gator Bowl, Toyota Gator Bowl, Konica Minolta Gator Bowl, Progressive Gator Bowl, and now, the TaxSlayer Bowl. What a racket.

By the way, I'm glad I grew up when I did. I can't imagine getting an explanation of the BCS from my dad at age 8. At least now when I don't understand it, I'm an adult and it's not his fault.

Purposely misspelled business names

I'm a stickler for spelling, a fact to which many of my former students will attest. Don't tell them, but I do sympathize. The English language is confusing. On top of that, businesses try to be distinctive by "creatively" spelling their names and products. I think I'll take a quick trip to Kwik Trip to pick up some Krispy Kremes and then go home and plop in my La-Z-Boy to read the paper.

And there you have it! The 2014 edition of pet peeves. (And feel free to share yours in the comments section!)

Battles with nature

Ever have something happen that is so...bizarre–you can't quite explain it in a way that makes sense to someone else?

I often wake at the crack of dawn to the sound of pattering feet. Probably most people do, but this is different because I don't have kids or pets. Part of the roof above my bedroom is flat. There are huge trees on both sides of my house. I will often hear squirrels chattering and scampering across it. While it took some getting used to, there are worse ways to wake up.

But this morning, I heard some loud banging. I first thought that someone was at my door. Bleary- eyed, I stumbled out of bed to explore. Nope. I stumbled back to my room and took refuge under my warm covers, muttering about the mystery. No sooner did my head touch the pillow when the racket began again. I sat up, feeling like the noise was coming from the roof. What in the world? Frustrated, I rapped on my bedroom window. The knocking stopped. I opened the window and poked my head out, brandishing a Fisher Price flashlight shaped like a cow. (It moos when you press the button and the light shines out of the cow's mouth. A gift from my father.) 

Three huge black birds flew off the roof, squawking. Were they crows? Ravens? I have no idea. I don't know what was happening out there, but that didn't stop my speculation. I started by imagining that the squirrels have sent out their CSI unit to investigate a multiple homicide. Are there miscellaneous bones scattered on my roof? Then, a second unsettling thought occurred to me. Could the birds be mating? How do birds procreate? I should have paid more attention in biology. In the brief moment before I can Google "How do birds have sex?" and after I laughed about the idea of birds being delivered by storks, the most horrifying thought crossed my mind. Were the neighbors watching the crazy woman in sweatpants and a messy ponytail hanging out of the window pointing a toy at the roof?

No one told me being an adult would be like this. 

Cover art

Do you have Facebook? Would you like a perfectly sized cover photo? I've created some cover photos that feature some favorite Bible passages. Feel free to download and use. (Photos were taken by me, so there is no copyright infringement.) To download, right-click on the image and select Save Image As (or Save Picture As). Save it to your computer and upload it to Facebook.

Craftermath

Speaking of family celebrations, my sisters and I have one that has taken on a life of its own: Craft Night. It started about 10 years ago when my sister invited us over to her house to make gel candles. (These are the ones that supposedly explode. Wait. What? As if a candle wasn't incendiary anyway.) We had a blast. (HA!)

So recently, when my cousin Beth and my great-aunt Betty came to visit, it seemed a perfect opportunity to have Craft Night. After all, scissors + wine = good ideas! Not everything from Craft Night turns out as we hoped (see evidence below), but we always have fun anyway. Here's a snapshot of the aftermath.

Now that Beth is back home, she's decided to share the thrill and start her own Craft Night. Welcome to the dark side, Beth!

Introducing new family celebrations

My sister wrote about her obsession with crayons, which stems from an experience in our childhood. I can relate. It's funny how little things in one's formative years shape a person. If you are a vegetarian or a health nut, I strongly discourage you from reading this post.

>>> Side note: I feel a teeny bit bad for my parents. With eight adult children, their parenting goes under the microscope of the aforementioned children. Even now, at family gatherings, there is good-natured ribbing of my parents and their approach. But I digress. <<<

Here's the story of how an ugly scar on my psyche turned into a new family celebration. Growing up, my mother would occasionally make bacon and craft a BLT for my dad. However, my mother hated the way the greasy smell lingered, plus bacon was expensive, so she didn't usually cook enough for the Mongolian Horde (a term of endearment my father had for his passel of children). My siblings and I would salivate at the very smell of frying bacon. It's one of those things that cannot be cooked "undercover."  While Dad was eating his BLT, the rest of us were eating a sandwich also known by its initials, but decidedly less thrilling: PB&J.

Fast forward 25 years. I fried up three pounds of bacon and took it to a family brunch. My brother Paul, upon surveying the table laden with fruit, scrambled eggs, donuts, pastries and muffins, made this comment: "The proportion of bacon to donuts should be reversed." With the size of our family, it didn't take long for the bacon to disappear.

And so an idea was born: Baconfest. The official motto of this auspicious event is "Bacon for everyone." (Clever, right?) One Sunday in February, I invited my parents, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews over to my house after church for brunch. We had all the fixings (eggs, juice, fruit, etc.), but at the center of the table was a huge platter of bacon. Everyone, adults and children alike, helped themselves. No rationing for pint-size people! And because I have a huge family, the final total consumed was nine pounds of bacon.

It has become a popular (although infrequent) family tradition. Mom was right about one thing: the worst part of Baconfest is the smell afterwards. It takes about a week before my house smells normal.

Summer blockbusters

There were four movies that were on my summer 2013 must-see list. Star Trek Into Darkness, Man of Steel, The Lone Ranger, and Iron Man 3. As of last week, I've crossed three of them off my list.

I am a sci-fi fan and a Zachary Quinto fan. His portrayal of the intellectual Spock's deep emotional turmoil just below the surface gets me every time. (Yes, I have a little crush on him. I am partial to smart men.) Plus, I loved the 2009 reboot from J.J. Abrams, so I corralled a friend and went to see Star Trek Into Darkness first. I enjoyed it, but walked away wishing it would have made a little more sense.

Next on my list was Man of Steel. I have a soft spot for Superman and what he stands for (truth, justice, and the American way). I think he's my favorite superhero. I adored Christopher Reeve in the original Superman movie as a kid. I watched all ten seasons of Smallville. Now, I admire director Zack Snyder and have grown to appreciate his gritty interpretation of the Watchmen, but that didn't seem like Superman to me. Still, I was cautiously optimistic. I ended up disappointed. It felt a little too much like Transformers to me. Henry Cavill did a credible job in the title role, but it just wasn't what I expected.

You know how sometimes, you are hoping against hope that a review will be completely off the mark? I crossed my fingers and went to see The Lone Ranger. However, this movie was, to quote my father, "silly."  (I think that's a generous assessment.) Johnny Depp played Tonto with shades of Jack Sparrow, and the other characters were completely one-dimensional. You know it's a bad sign when you're looking for your watch to check the time during a movie. (Still, props to Gioachino Rossini, the composer of The William Tell Overture. Gives me chills, every time, even if the movie stinks.)

Oh, Iron Man 3, please don't disappoint me!

Thoughts about naps

I'm going to share a secret with you. If you try to call me on Sunday afternoon, Odds are, I won't answer the phone. I am probably sleeping. Sunday's supposed to be a day of rest. I take this literally.

My eight-year-old self would be horridly disappointed with me. My mother has long been a legendary believer in the power of a good nap. But growing up, I viewed taking naps to be much less desirable than taking a spoonful of medicine (and I HATED NyQuil, so that's saying something).

I went to extreme lengths to avoid having to nap. I got busted more times than I can count for not behaving during nap time (pulling out the trundle bed and using it as a stage to reenact the Donny and Marie Show with my sisters, for example). Plainly speaking, I was a nap delinquent.

My mother said, "Someday, you'll be glad when you can take a nap." Of all the things my mother said when I was a child, this was the one I found most unbelievable. Was she serious? I could only think of all the time that was WASTED as I SLEPT. As in--gone forever! For example, I could have been using my chemistry set to conduct experiments in my laboratory. (Oh, wait, I didn't have a laboratory. I tried, but my parents put the kibosh on that too. Some nonsense about blowing up the house. Too bad; instead of becoming a Nobel prize winning scientist, I am now a writer. I ask you...who got the last laugh?)


I'm not sure when naps became an indulgence rather than a dreaded chore. But here I am and there's no going back.  

And now, I think I could run for office on the sole strength of this platform: Vote for naps! I bet I'd get elected too. I'm Jill Tiefel, and I approved this message.

I've got mail

I love getting mail. The anticipation of going to the mailbox and wondering what might be in the mailbox is, to me, one of life's little pleasures. Who knows what will arrive? I might have a new magazine, the latest Entertainment Weekly or Psychology Today. Maybe it will be a new movie from Netfix or a peel-off coupon from Kohl's department store (Did I get 30% off? Time to go shopping!).

My favorite kind of mail is an envelope that's been hand-addressed. That usually signals something fun, like a card from a friend or an invitation.
Bills are decidedly less exciting, but I'm still willing to take a chance and pull the black door open.

Knowing the thrill that I receive when I retrieve my mail, I like to mail things to other people. Oh, I know there are other more immediate and less expensive ways to communicate: E-mail, texting, Facebook, phone calls. And I use all of those too.

It's possible that I've romanticized the idea, but I believe there is a gravitas to receiving something in the mail. In my mind, nothing can replace a handwritten card or letter which arrives in an envelope that bears my address in a familiar scrawl. The sender thought enough about me to personally see to those little details.

When I'm addressing a letter, I'm thinking about its recipient with each swirl of cursive that my ink pen presses into the paper. I don't care that it costs 46¢. It's completely worth it. Less than two quarters to make my family and friends feel like a million bucks? It's a bargain.  

What About Now?

I've never been an audiophile. I am not one of those people who can give you good recommendations for cutting-edge, new music. {I wish I were, because it sounds swell.} I've dated music purists who've scoffed at my taste and made me mix tapes and CDs in an effort to broaden my horizons. This was not a complete exercise in futility, but I still love bubble-gum rock.

It's only fitting that I love Bon Jovi, a commercially-successful, yet critically-disparaged band. Bon Jovi's trademark upbeat lyrics nearly always feature a down-on-your-luck, never-say-die, pull-yourself-up-by-the-boot-straps-with-a-bit-of-sass feeling. Cross reference Living on a Prayer.

I've seen the band in concert five times. I own every album. So when they released their newest one What About Now last week, of course I had to go buy it.

At Best Buy, I am stuck in a quandary. Do I buy the standard or extended version? I choose the extended version, but as I'm rushing out of the store, I begin to doubt the decision. Is it worth it?

So, I decide to call the expert, the person who loves music more than anyone else I know: Ryan. Here's his take: "The extended version almost always contains a few extra songs, which are usually turds because they didn't make the original album cut. They weren't good enough to make the album, but then they add them to the CD and call it the extended version. Turdlettes."  (My inner editor says, "I don't think that's a word," but I take his meaning.)

However, when I ask Ryan if he buys the extended version of an album from his favorite band, he immediately and unapologetically says yes. He loves the Smashing Pumpkins and he wants to hear any songs that they write, including the turdlettes. {Ahh. Validation. This was basically the conclusion I drew while in Best Buy.} 

So I'm listening to the CD. It's full of quintessential Bon Jovi. I am ready to line up on behalf of the working man and all star-crossed lovers. Then I get to track 8. The name of the song Army of One evokes the old National Guard recruiting slogan, but I'll give it a listen. Then...I get to the chorus: "Never give up, Never give up, Never, Never give up, Never let up, Ever, Never give in, You’re an army of one." And now, all I can think about is Galaxy Quest, the spoof on Star Trek, where the kitschy tag line is "Never give up, never surrender." Don't get me wrong. I like Galaxy Quest. But I hate this song. I don't know if that's ever happened. So here's my question. Jon Bon Jovi, how did a turdlette make it on to the actual album?

P.S. I'm still a fan.

 

Baked in the oven of your heart

This has been a fun year in literature class so far. Besides reading Flowers for Algernon, which caused my students to blink back tears as they stared at their desks when we reached the end of the story, and The Lady. Or The Tiger, which resulted in indignant expressions about the outcome, we have read lots of poetry.

There are few things more rewarding than seeing a student engaged with an idea. We read A Loaf of Poetry (which gave me chills. No lie.) by Noami Kiroyata, which compares the creative process to making a loaf of bread. Yet weeks later, the students still refer to the "yeast of inspiration" and "baked in the oven of your heart". One student was astounded to learn that the author was male.

When we finished Southbound on the Freeway by May Swenson, the class was absorbed in the riddle she presents. We discovered the answer while we talked about it.

We also read this Gwendolyn Brooks poem. After a vigorous class discussion, one student said, "I didn't know what this meant, but after we talked about it, I really liked it."  A-ha! I gotcha!

Changing perceptions and seeing their surprised delight is truly one of the best things about teaching.

Being creative

In his book On Writing, Stephen King talks about the necessity of sitting down every day and devoting time to writing, whether or not you "feel" like it. This is a piece of advice that often comes to mind when I'm in the tall grass and don't feel like I can string two coherent sentences together.

I had an interesting conversation with my sister Deb a few months ago about how much writing feels like work sometimes. If your goal is to be a writer and you want to enjoy what you do, why does the process feel so excruciating? I mean, really...between teaching, other jobs, and just trying to keep it together, how can I set aside a time to write? 

Here's what I decided: I have no choice. I have to be creative in some way (writing, design, whatever). It's a moral imperative for me. I'm going to be thinking about it anyway. (Deb says the words bounce around in her head and they're going to keep doing that until she gets them out on paper.) I know what she means.

Here's the world's worst analogy: My mind's like a bathroom sink. I've got all this detritus clogging my pipes. Being creative and allowing my mind to wander and ponder, before refocusing and organizing is like taking a snake tool and removing the nasty hairballs and bits of decaying debris. Occasionally, one might come up with a diamond ring in the process, but it's fairly unlikely. The important thing is that the water can flow through the pipes again.

The upside is that I don't worry so much about the outcome of a project. I might have a great creative brainstorm that turns out to be an ugly disaster, but there will be some that are worthwhile.

Thoughts about the election

I got a request from one of my faithful readers (Hi, Mom!) to post an update. Here's something that occurred to me last week, when I gave two of my sixth grade volleyball players a ride to the game.

While driving, I overheard them in the back seat discussing the upcoming election. One of them said to the other, "You just can't trust anything that they say. The one guy will say something about the other guy and he will say something back about him."


It wasn't so much the words themselves, it was her tone. She wasn't spouting vitriol about the campaign and election process or any candidate. She was just matter-of-fact.

Part of me was sad. What does it say about politics in the United States when an 11-year-old thinks that no one is honest? It's a sobering thought.

But part of me was glad. She's paying attention to the election and to what's happening in our country. She's engaged in the process, even though she can't vote. Too bad more adults aren't like her.  

Take me out to the ball game

In my search for the "quintessential summer experience" (otherwise known as my desire to make summer vacation last as long as possible), I can't believe I didn't think about going to a baseball game. Really, is there a more traditional summer activity than the all-American pastime?


So when my friend suggested going to a game at Target Field, I jumped at the chance. I have a habit of romanticizing things and baseball is no exception. I inhaled the entire experience as I spent an inning and a half walking around the entire park, looking at the field from all angles. I was reminded of one of my favorite movies: Bull Durham. Kevin Costner's veteran catcher Crash Davis describes major league stadiums, "The ballparks are like cathedrals." 

I don't know when I'll visit Target Field again, because my Tigers have not won the last three times I've watched them play in Minneapolis. I'm not normally superstitious, but with sports, I make an exception. One summer I listened to Ice Ice Baby before every softball game. True story. 

I know I've written frequently about my Canon lately, and while I concede that you might be tired of hearing about it-- I. Just. Can't. Help. Myself. I took it to the game and tried out some new features. 

Candid camera

Since I've been using my new Canon (love it!), my little point-and-shoot probably feels neglected. I don't take the photos off its memory card as often as I used to. So today, when I went to review what's on the card, I laughed hysterically for five minutes. I let my nieces and nephews take pictures with the camera and this was the first time I've actually looked at the results.

Take a peek:

Either my sister was *really* cold or the photographer had unsteady hands!

Some very artistic thighs (no Photoshop needed!)

Daring photojournalism. Going where no photographer has gone before. The church bathroom.

My brother's strong jawline

Mini libraries

Here's an idea I'm absolutely in love with. It's called Little Free Library. This movement started in Wisconsin. People all over the nation have built these little bookhouses and filled them with books. You can take a book or leave a book. In my own hometown, I've spotted three of them, but according to the map, there are a few more!

You can download instructions on how to build your own, or even order a kit. I would love to have one, so maybe I'll see if I can get my sister to help me craft it. In the meantime, I've visited one and put a few books inside. Everyone needs a little Nick Hornby, right?

Tip-pig tournament

I'm at the forefront of a new movement, a new twist on an old game. A sport that I am going to lobby to be part of the next summer Olympics. It's called tip-pig. (It's important to note the name. Tip-Dash-Pig.) For complete rules, please visit the official tip-pig website, where co-founder John explains the game in the most complex possible way. :)

Anyway, it's become a summer tradition to get together for tip-pig, complimented by food, drink, music and a campfire. I was pleased to participate in the festivities again this year. I'd like to state that I actually won one of the rounds of tip-pig!  However, I did not do well enough to win the championship belt. Next year. :)

This picture captured a rare moment: Gary defying gravity.

The winner poses with the trophies.

Official scorekeeper (left) and co-founder (right)

County fair

In the Midwest, what tradition says "summer" like a county fair? I spent two days at a fair with good friends, helping out and running errands. Here are a few things I learned:

• They let crackpots (i.e. me) direct traffic. While I totally rocked the neon yellow vest with reflective tape (ha!), it was a risk to give me a two-way radio. After a few hours in the sun, I found many things funny that probably weren't funny. I'm sure I unintentionally entertained some of the drivers.
• I still cannot properly apply sunscreen (ow, ow, pain, pain). I always miss some something, like my hairline or the tops of my feet.
• Goats need privacy when they are giving birth. (WHAT? You put the goats into a barn, where hundreds of people walk through and view their every moment, then you want the goat to have privacy? Did you not realize the goat was pregnant when you dropped her off at the fair?)
• Growing up, my friend Dayna showed dairy cows at the fair. During a quiet moment, we were watching a young girl lead her animal in the direction of the milk barn and Dayna said with sincere appreciation, "That's a nice looking cow." (Maybe it was the heat or the fact that all cows look pretty much the same to me, but I dissolved into hysterical laughter. Dayna's expression read, "The city girl has lost her marbles.")
• Farm boys know how to have a good time...I watched some doing backflips...into a pile of manure.
• The county fair is probably one of the only places where you can run into someone who went to high school with Tom Wopat.
• I didn't know a shower could feel so good. After layers of dirt, dust, sweat and sunscreen, I was seriously dreaming of hot water, clean towels and a bar of soap. Talk about appreciating the little things!

I carried my camera with me most of the time to capture the details:

And there is another quintessential summer experience in my book. :)