The Roll of the Sea

When I lived in Scotland my flat was on the harbor, looking out to the North Sea. Every day I watched the fishing boats leave the protective stone walls that encircled the harbor. It fascinated me. At night, the lights on the boats would twinkle on the dark water.

One of the fishermen once explained the boat lights to me. Every light meant something. Just by looking at the lights of a boat you should be able to tell which way it is heading, if its nets are down, what it is fishing for, and even how long it is. You needed to know how to read the lights so you could steer your own vessel to safety. When you got to the harbor, you knew that if you matched up certain lights, you could plot a straight course and not miss the harbor entrance or run into rocks or one of the stone walls. It was vital to know not only how to pilot your boat when things were bright and clear but also what to do when it was pitch black and there wasn’t a familiar landmark in sight.

The Bible is my light, my key, my chart, for plotting a straight path. And I can’t know which way to go unless I open it and read it for myself. Relying on someone else to tell me the way is like trying to steer my boat with some guy next to me yelling directions in my ear. I’m bound to get in trouble.

Boats like this are everywhere - people shipwrecked, marooned on a dangerous reef. Those who ignored the signs and are now sitting in a leaky boat, unaware they need rescuing even as the water pours in. I’ve done it myself – shoved the chart to the side, ignored the lights or refused to read them, and then wondered why I ended up so far away from my destination.

But usually it isn’t such a conscious decision to plot my own course; it’s a casual drift, day by day, that takes me from my goal. The past couple years have been a difficult time of transition and half-hearted searching. There’s been a lot of mediocrity. I didn’t realize it, but it is there.

It’s time to get my lights lined up and head home.

"Small craft in a harbour that's still and serene,
Give no indication what their ways have been;
They rock at their moorings all nestled in dreams,
Away from the roll of the sea.

Their stern lines are groaning a lullaby air,
A ghost in the cuddy, a gull on the spar;
But never they whisper of journeys afar,
Away from the roll of the sea.

Oh, had they the tongues for to speak,
What tales of adventure they'd weave;
But now they are anchored to sleep,
And slumber alee.

Come fair winds to wake them tomorrow, we pray,
Come harvest a-plenty to them ev'ry day;
Till guided by harbour lights they're home to stay,
Away from the roll of the sea."

After the Flood

On Tuesday morning I was alerted to the fact that the downstairs sink was clogged up. That a faucet was left on. That the bathroom, hallway, and a couple feet of the living room were, um, soaked.

I had heard stomping around in the middle of the night, but it was my younger brother's night off (he works the graveyard shift), so I assumed all was well below (meaning, he would take care of whatever that noise was) and simply went back to sleep.

I'm kind of glad I did. That stomping was him trying to soak up excess water with every available towel. He even used some t-shirts. He soaked up like, 12 containers of water with my little Bissell carpet cleaner. He looked pretty beat when I saw him that morning.

After some tiring days of jet-engine like fans and the acrid smell of carpet drying, we are pretty much back to normal. I peeked under the bathroom carpet to check the padding and it looks okay. I did discover that the floor underneath is some kind of weird glossy brick laminate, which I did not know existed.

I'm really hoping 34 gets better....

The Last Days of 33

Next Wednesday I will shed the worn out garment of my 33rd year of life and take on number 34. So how have I been spending the last precious days of 33?

Well, mostly by doing online traffic school and attending baby and wedding showers. Not exactly a stellar end to the birthday year, but it’s true. Earlier this summer I received two speeding tickets a couple weeks apart. The shame of it was that it occurred for the same offense, on the same road, at the same time of day, by the same cop.

I no longer drive that way to work. My punishment was to sit in front of my laptop and watch animated clip art and safety instructions read to me for a few hours. As I could read the screen faster than the narrator could say it, I had a lot of down time. I managed to eat my lunch and paint all my nails during the class, plus I scored a 100% on the post-course test. I still have one more to take.

And then there are the four showers I have attended in the past two weeks. It’s like I suddenly was added to the married people’s e-mail list and am getting invited to the “Second Baby” showers – the one’s not in the church but in people’s homes. I’ve enjoyed them as I rarely get a chance to talk with these women without children competing for their time. Many of them used to be in the singles group with me so it’s been great to catch up. But I’m a tad cash poor at the moment.

I knew I had really arrived when I received an e-mail from a group of women at church inviting me to their craft/hobby night. Sadly, I do not have a craft or hobby that I can tote to the fellowship hall, but I really was pleased to be invited. I told my mother about this:

“Hmm, you don’t really have a craft thing, do you? You don’t sew, or scrapbook, or anything like that.”

“No. I mean, my biggest hobby is reading. If I have a free couple of hours, that is what I love to do.”

“Maybe you could take a book, honey, and sit there and read.”

“I think that defeats the purpose of gathering together.”

“Good point.”

I love my mother.

With the school year back in swing, my dance classes began again this week. And I am happy to report that I have now tapped to “My Sharona” by The Knack and “I Love a Rainy Night” by Eddie Rabbitt. My dance teacher is nothing if not diverse in musical taste.

And maybe flying across a dance floor isn’t such a bad way to close out 33.

Handy Tip of the Day

Remember to remove the sun shades on your windshield before attempting to drive out of the library parking lot.

The Great Onion Fiasco of 2006

In a supreme effort to get fit and also save money by eating at home, I actually planned out some low-calorie/low-fat menus for the week. This is not easy as very few recipes are for single people and as much as I love cooking I rarely do it.

So Monday after work I forced myself into the YMCA and had a bracing workout and then rushed home to make dinner. Of course, by this point I was very, very hungry and had to steel myself against reverting to my baser instincts, i.e. boiling some Ramen noodles and having a meal ready in 3 minutes.*

I flew into the kitchen, exercising extreme self-discipline to not stuff anything and everything into my mouth, pulled out the recipe, and began to put it all together. I was making Sloppy Joes, or “Healthy Jo’s” as the cookbook referred to them.

I threw the meat in the skillet to begin browning and then turned my attention to the next item - ½ cup of chopped onions. I got excited because this meant I finally got to use my Pampered Chef cutting board and my Pampered Chef Handy Dandy Food Chopper. I got it all out, stuck the onion under the chopper, and pressed down.

In hindsight, it would have been a better idea if I had perhaps cut the onion in two or fours, as it was far too big to chop all at once. The result was that the entire onion mass became embedded up in the chopper and refused to move.

At this junction, I realized my meat needed some attention as I forgot to turn the exhaust fan on and it was burning and the kitchen was beginning to fill with ground beef smoke. After taking care of that, I grabbed a kitchen knife and attempted to extricate the onion from the chopper. No go. So I took the chopper apart and then tried to cut the onion into smaller pieces so it would come out. This was a little more successful, but the onion pieces somehow became airborne during their bid for freedom and landed pretty much all over the kitchen.

And then I inadvertently pushed the chopper into my hand.

That was extremely painful as the chopper blades were quite sharp and now I was bleeding over the onion I had worked so hard to rescue. This resulted in running my lacerated finger under the cold tap, chucking the bloody onion, and starting again with the other half.

I realized I could have skipped the YMCA entirely and used my food preparation as my workout. I was sweating just as hard.

But the end result? Entirely worth it. They were the BEST Sloppy Joe’s, made with the toil of my blood, sweat, and onion-induced tears. I leave you with the recipe:

1 lb. lean ground beef or turkey
½ cup chopped onions
1 8oz. can of Hunt’s Tomato Sauce
½ cup of chunky salsa
1 T of Splenda Brown Sugar substitute
6 Low calorie hamburger buns

Brown meat and onions in skillet. Add tomato sauce, salsa and brown sugar substitute, stirring well. Let simmer for 15 minutes, then spoon out onto hamburger buns. Serves six.

If you are doing Weight Watchers, it’s only 6 points per serving, including the bun.

*While I realize this is not exactly a meal, I really do like Ramen noodles.

Swimming in it

I went to Target on my lunch break yesterday to find a simple, two-piece bathing suit to wear under my clothing for an upcoming rafting trip.

The above sentence is wrong on many levels. First, that I could find a bathing suit in under an hour. Second, that this time of year would provide me with any kind of choice, and third, that I would be presented with anything that is simple.

I know it’s all back-to-school season out there. Which explains why the racks that once offered a plethora of beachy options now showcase long-sleeved turtlenecks and sweaters. Nevermind that we will not be able to take advantage of these clothes until, say, late October.

So I was left with the paltry clearance rack. It was full of two-pieces. But these suits were mere whispers of fabric, dedicated to only covering the barest of essentials. My basic undergarments cover much, much more. Also, they featured a bewildering array of sequins, brads, buckles, and straps. Some had plastic rings (in a lovely tortoiseshell color) to hold the front and back of your bottoms together. Others had strategically cut holes marching across the front of the waistband that made me realize that bikini waxers probably do rake in some serious dough.

For the top pieces, I was left with a selection of small triangles and shoelaces to hold it all together. Clearly, these are not going to stand up to a whitewater rafting trip. Actually, it was quite clear they were not designed to hold up to anything more strenuous than flipping over seductively on an oversized beach towel.

As I have never flipped over seductively, ever, I left the store in disappointment.

I do have a good bathing suit. I spent a lot of money on it early in the season when I realized I was going to be spending some time at the beach. It has a nifty halter top that covers my tummy and a cute skirt that covers everything it is supposed to. It even has pockets (pockets! I say) to hold perhaps a key, lip balm, or stick of gum.

When I emerged in this expensive creation on the beach in North Carolina, however, I noticed something immediately. I was the most dressed person there. In fact, my fellow beach goers thought my bathing suit was actually my cover up. Never one to be brought down by peer pressure, though, I was confident in the knowledge that when I played volleyball or paddle ball or strolled the shore I did not have to constantly adjust, tug and check that I was covered. My bathing suit was going nowhere.

Where my suit let me down, however, was when I went into the ocean to jump in the waves and boogie board. When a wave washed over me my skirt would flip up while my pockets flapped about wildly, loaded with sand. So after each wave I would have a little routine of spit-water-out, flip-hair-out-of eyes, and tug-down-skirt/arrange pockets.

This gets a tad tiresome. Finally I just headed out to deeper water so no one could tell if my skirt was up or down and resigned myself to swimming with so much fabric swirling about me. I wondered if anyone had ever drowned because of excessive swimwear.

Which is why, when I go rafting on Saturday I would like something a mite less cumbersome. And so I am stuck between too much fabric or, like the choices in Target, too little. Perhaps I should just stick with what I normally wear under my clothes and be done with it. I doubt if the river will mind.

Shower Me

I was recently speaking with a friend about a couple I knew who had about 6 or 7 wedding showers for their upcoming nuptials. She looked at me and mumbled, "We had 10."

I must confess, if there is one thing that I can get truly jealous about regarding being single is the fact that I would really like a wedding shower. I don't necessarily need a groom, per se. And I don't want one just so I can be the center of attention and receive gifts from tons of people. (Okay, I would like to receive gifts from tons of people - who wouldn't?)

I want one for the reason they were invented - so I can fix up my house. Most of my household goods have been inherited from my Grandmother, so I have some really odd stuff - like 23 wineglasses from a woman who never drank alcohol - and a hand-crank coffee bean grinder from Holland. Interesting, for sure, but not entirely practical.

I need picture frames. Lots and lots of picture frames. Those are expensive, folks. I need a duvet cover and a dust ruffle. My current "bedspread" is a bargain blanket Mom picked up in Tijuana, Mexico. My dining room holds a card table. I own one tablecloth that does not fit it. I have two sets of sheets. None of my towels match. I think the same could be said for my small army of drinking glasses.

I do have a decent set of dishes. Grandma bought them for me when I was engaged several years ago. She saw them at the grocery store and collected most of them with special stamps or something. I didn't get to pick out the pattern or anything, but it's very liveable.

I know the heart of my problem. I have got to stop looking at Pottery Barn, Pier One, and Restoration Hardware catalogs. It's creating a greedy consumerism that is gnawing at my anchors of contentment.

When I lived in Scotland, household goods there were so expensive and my salary was so minimal that decor was pretty much what I called "missionary chic." I remember getting so excited when I found framed Monet prints on sale in the produce department at Safeway.

I know I need to save up to buy these things if I truly want them. Yet when I imagine what I would do with a cash windfall, I immediately start planning imaginary trips to Italy and Australia and my beloved Scotland. And think of all the books I could buy! All the friends I could fly out and see!

Ah, so I suppose I don't really need a wedding shower ... just someone's air miles.